


impressionable

by Legendaerie



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Accidentally fantasizing about your crush boning someone else, Genderbending, Multi, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Telepathic Sex, Telepathy, Voyeurism, possibly cuckoldry, the immeasurable ego of a straight white male politician
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 06:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: Thaddeus J. Dowling jumps to some veryfascinatingconclusions about his employees.





	impressionable

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in three hours bc the phrase “nanny Crowley pegs” infected me like a virus and I have been feverish with this show for three weeks. please forgive me for this bin of sin, I have no beta and I have no bedtime
> 
> also to make it clear: this is show canon where Crowley IS Ashtoreth and not her boss, thus the “other” tag since supernatural gender is pretty fluid (I haven’t read the book yet)

Thaddeus Dowling considers himself a good husband. The Lord knows he has been tempted - constantly - but he has never strayed in a way that mattered. A couple of minor indiscretions here and there, but he loves his wife and their son.

But there’s something about their nanny that he can’t quite shake.

Ms. Ashtoreth Crowley is tall, thin, red-headed and severe: a ginger snap of a person whose stoic expression is further shrouded by the black sunglasses she always wears. Thaddeus likes curves on a gal, and long straight hair, and feisty eyes and thick legs and—

Suffice to say, Ashtoreth is not his type of woman. And yet there is something in the way that she moves, quiet and sure and purposeful - something in the way that she smiles without moving her lips - something in the way that she  _ breathes _ that is fascinating to him.

Thaddeus has no real intentions toward Ashtoreth. At least he doesn’t at 3 o’clock in the afternoon as he watches her watch Warlock watch TV. It’s a boring afternoon, miserably hot, and yet Ashtoreth is darning socks with quiet precision.

“Isn’t it hard to see, in those glasses?” Thaddeus asks, more for something to say than an assumption that Ashtoreth will do a thing about his suggestion. And he’s right, all she does is stop for a moment and tilt her head up a fraction.

“No.”

Well, so much for a conversation. It rankles him, and when American Ambassador to the U.K Thaddeus J. Dowling is rankled, he finds someone else to blame for his mistake. Today it’s the gardener, gap toothed and heavy set and  _ piggy _ in an  _ English _ way, and his inexplicable ability to entertain Warlock’s nanny for minutes on end each day. How dare he succeed where Thaddeus cannot?

They’re probably fucking, he concludes miserably and tries to go back to reading the latest insipid email chain from his bosses back home.

Ashtoreth smothers a small cough.

He pushes the thought aside after a moment but it comes back, bobbing to the surface like an apple floating in water.  _ Maybe they are fucking, _ purrs a little voice in his mind.  _ Does it make you jealous? _

It does, yes. He doesn’t want anyone else in particular - his child’s nanny is tempting but his wife would find out immediately and rip his balls off - and yet...

His sex life hasn’t been what it’s been for a while. It stings to think that someone as ugly as Brother Francis is getting a hot taste of Ashtoreth on the side.

_ What do you think they could get up to, in the few minutes they seem to spend together in a day?  _ the voice prompts.

He’s not sure. Doesn’t want to think about it too much. Annoying enough to suspect that it’s happening, much less—

_ Oh, but wouldn’t you love to know? _ it asks again. As if on cue, Ashtoreth brushes a stray auburn curl behind her ear.  _ It would hurt so good to think about them entwined together, wouldn’t it? _

It would. It does. Thaddeus can see it now; both of them crowding into the tool shed, Ashtoreth’s glasses tilting askew as their lips lock, sloppy and desperate. Maybe her eyes are blue. Maybe they’re apple green.

_ Yellow delicious, maybe,  _ comes an errant thought.

In either case, that impeccable facade is ruined by muddy hands smearing all over her clothes, rucking up her skirts and clinging to her neck as Francis kisses her like he’s drowning. They only have minutes at a time, after all, and the chemistry between them—

_ Really? _

Thaddeus frowns. He’s pretty sure it’s chemistry. History, at least. There’s something familiar in the way that they talk about each other, a mixture of fondness and frustration as they counteract each other’s conclusions. In fact, hadn’t they had a rather stirring discussion regarding pollination not last week?

There’s a sharp intake of breath, then Ashtoreth shakes her hand. Stabbed herself with her pin, he assumes. Where was his train of thought again?

_ The tool shed. Francis and Ashtoreth in the tool shed. _

Right. He’s not even sure if the gardener can get it up - Ashtoreth sneezes and presses a tissue against her mouth - but his hands could probably do the trick.

_ Quite thick fingers. Still dirty? _

Naturally. He shoves then inside her with little finesse, but she’s slick enough that they slide in as though her body was made for those digits. Francis ruts against Ashtoreth’s long, bony thigh and she’s sweating under all of her dark layers. Her face goes lax as the pleasure washes over her, lips parting on a breathless little moan. The only sound she makes the entire time; perfect counterpoint to Francis’s constant stream of murmured comments, encouragement and descriptions of how it feels to just have two fingers inside her, how  _ tight  _ and  _ wet _ and  _ hot  _ she is, how  _ good— _

_ Not bad,  _ says the voice.  _ And if they had more time? What do you think they would do? _

Instinct says Ashtoreth tops. She’s glacial like that, steel and leather and punishment. Not Thaddeus’s type usually, in a way that he’s not a wine man unless it’s a very good vintage, but Francis…

Could she sit on Francis’s face with his teeth looking like that?

Ashtoreth coughs again and excuses herself, a little out of breath as she fumbles for the door out to the front porch. Thaddeus watches her go and sees a little bit extra sway in those hips, then tries to shakes himself out of his train of thought. What does it matter if the help are fucking each other? So long as they raise his kid right.

_ It matters,  _ hisses the voice.  _ It matters to you. Keep picturing it. What else do they do? _

If Francis could get his awkward mouth around her pussy—

_ Stimulating the clitoris is more effective than penetration, he’d be able to get at that without issue. How did you have— _ the voice cuts itself off and starts again.  _ His tongue is stroking her sex. What else is he doing? _

He’s on his knees for sure. Maybe his head is hidden under her skirts, and he’s torn a hole in her hosiery to lick at her pussy. His hand on those sharp hips, holding on for dear life as she crushes his face against her. She’s talking now, quiet commands for more, harder, faster, maybe if he gets her wet enough she’d let his little dick inside of her. Not that it would satisfy her in the way that Thaddeus’s thick, baby-making cock would.

_ And why wouldn’t it?  _ the voice asks.  _ What if Francis had a lovely cock, straight and hard and true as an arrow? What if he fucked her right? _

Would that be worse? Would it be better? Thaddeus couldn’t pleasure her if he wanted to; not without penalty. Not without her being cold and sterile the whole time, submitting to him with all the sensuality of a folding chair. Even in his fantasies he can’t pretend she cares about him.

No, but maybe Francis should be able to pleasure her, turn those narrow cheeks red with heat. He’d have to hold her up against the wall and fuck her there, unless she laid him in the dirt and rode him absolutely senseless. Her heels would leave furrows in the earth like Francis’s trowel, and she’d show him what it felt like to be plowed. Have him spill his seed inside of her, grind against him for minutes afterwards to make sure it gets her good and—

“Hey, daddy?”

Thaddeus spills the cup of cold coffee he didn’t even know he had all over his lap at his son’s interruption. “Fff— Yes, Warlock?” he asks, trying to breathe as the miserable, cold damp smothers his erection.

“What’s a parabola?”

“I— I don’t—“

On cue, Ashtoreth swans into the room with all the aura of someone who has just smoked a very satisfying cigarette. She gives Thaddeus a blank, expectant look.

“Ask your nanny,” Thaddeus snaps.

Time to go change his pants.

  
  
  



End file.
